


Monster

by TheTaurenGhost



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Guardians of the Galaxy - All Media Types
Genre: Body Horror, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, No Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-10
Updated: 2014-09-24
Packaged: 2018-02-16 21:25:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2284977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheTaurenGhost/pseuds/TheTaurenGhost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Each of the Guardians has heard the insult in their own way: Monster, Freak, etc. Here's an explanation of what's that's done to each of them. (Character Studies/One Shots; may dove-tail into a plot, maybe not.) Mature, mostly for language and body horror; no relationships, except maybe what the Guardians mean now to each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Rocket

His body was on fire. Well, it was more like nerve endings remembering the phantom pain that his synapses had been through from the nightmare he had, that encyclopedia they had fucking downloaded into his brain. Rocket woke up in a lather of sweat, the drone of the engines of the Milano reminding him again, that he was safe from Them.

Them. That was his name for the fucks that did this to him. Groot was still asleep, nearby. _At least this time I managed to not cry out like a fucking child_ , he thought to himself. He wasn't sure which time was the most humiliating; the time that Gamora was there to reassure him, his body seized up in sleep paralysis, or the time DRAX of all people, was singing a lullaby to calm him in that rumble of a voice of his.

_Actually, his pipes were pretty fucking good. He missed his calling, being a maniac. Or maybe Thanos missed it for him. What the fuck ever._

For Rocket, there were four kinds of nights. The first were the best and the fewest; the times he was either too drunk, or on a few rare occassions, too peaceful to be bothered. He forgot his dreams, and rarely woke up.  _Maybe, I don't have dreams like a headcase_ , he mused.  _Maybe, for a change, my dreams aren't utter shit._

The second were actually quite common, but on the whole, not bad nights. He would have one or two horrible dreams, but they wouldn't fuck with his senses too bad. The most that would happen is he'd look at his teammates with vague embarrassment, because those were often the noisy and the emotional ones. Once he was stilled, he could sleep.

The third he only considered bad because he knew he had to sleep. These were the nights where he'd stay awake, working out his latest invention, not out of obsession so much as a foreboding. He was waiting for the other shoe to drop. Some people tried to label it his version of OCD or paranoia, but he knew better.  _OCD is when you're fucking doing things because your brain is giving you neurotic fucking input that doesn't exist. It's not OCD or paranoia when the thing you're actively trying to avoid acutally HAPPENS._ Groot had once made tea in order for Rocket to sleep. The raccoon considered that his floral friend meant well, (and worth mentioning, he never asked where Groot got the plants FOR the tea) but once Rocket did sleep, the fourth kind of night happened. 

What made it so terrible wasn't the screaming in the middle of the night. It was the fact he couldn't scream. It was the idea when he woke up, he would be paralyzed, as if strapped to a table again. Sometimes he woke up, thinking this was a dream, that he was still contained in his white, windowless cell, wearing the scrubs they gave him when they managed to teach him shame, as if they were God in the Garden of Eden.

_I shoulda never found Quill's collection of Terran books. Soon, I'll be on my knees, praying to some savior to deliver me from the shithole I'm in. 'Cept it doesn't work that way, does it? The God in the white beard only saves humies, and only good ones at that. I think I'm automatically damned, shitty little monster I am._

The dreams weren't the worst part, though. The worst part, always the worst part, was him being a mute observer as the scenes from Them ( _maybe this is a dream, being safe in the room with the only friends I know and love, dammit no no no, this can't be some escapist fantasy, fuck no)_ bled into the realm of the waking, invading Rocket's thoughts. And he watched as they replayed what created him, the patchwork animal version of Frankenstein's monster.  _Although Quill actually DID burn that book when he found out Rocket had been reading it and the nightmares had worsened,_ he remembered, the last coherent thought he had as it began.

 

_Doctor [REDACTED]'s Log:_

 

_After sixty nine attempts with varying species (the Xandarian raven showed the most promise, but had to be put down), we have achieved sentience finally after increasing the genetic structure. Subject [REDACTED] was grown and modified out of an interesting species from a planetary backwater. Subject has cognitive ability of a three year old. We are trying to instill ethical behavior routines, but subject seems willful, particularly with metal or shiny objects. Subject also has an oral fixation. It is hopeful that Doctor [REDACTED]'s thumb and forefinger will get full function again after the surgery._

 

_This is our greatest triumph. We will get to work on continued brainwashing and avoidance subroutines, and begin implantation immediately. Platoons of animals, marching in a row, able to assimilate with the wildlife, able to strike anywhere and anywhen. There will be no power that can stop us, and no power that can't afford to pay us._

 

Rocket's first thought as a sentient being was 'who am I?' Followed by the squeak he emitted when he realized he could speak.

 

They had a really dull answer for that one. There was something called Subject and a string of letters—Rocket knew letters, somehow—interspersed with numbers.  Older Rocket would of said that he was named by the statistical gang bang of drawing letters out of a bag and an accountant's wet dream.

 

He didn't remember them now. He still remembered Them. After They realized they succeeded, They began implantation. Things to make him stronger and faster, and buoy up his skeletal frame. A cortical implant, mostly internal, that would serve as universal translator and data base all in one. It saved them time from teaching, it would intersperse the dreams of the raccoonoid with lessons. What things are, what they were. In that, they could give him information that would take years to learn.

 

There was some great stuff in there. His mechanical lessons were in there; but there were some texts that were obviously slipped in to amuse Rocket.

 

_ Maybe the person who programmed the cortical implant got away _ , Rocket thought. He certainly hoped so. He was part of Them, but not cruelly so. However, Him with the luminous eyes, glasses, as Rocket would learn later, were the worst of Them. None of the surgeries that were performed had any anesthetic; they needed to test the genetic pain modification. Also, to make sure he was able to receive a great amount of pain when being tortured.

 

And when they put the cybernetics in, it was a bit at a time, and to Rocket, what seemed to be the slowest, cruelest way possible. His transformation to living freak was often done at fourteen to sixteen hours at a time, interspersed only with four hour sleep breaks. They broke down his impressionable mind bit by bit, sliver by sliver. The glasses fuck enjoyed having an open debate over what to do with Rocket's sex organs. And open debate was fucking literal; Rocket was OPEN on the table while having the debate.

 

_ Leave them intact.  _ That cold, amused voice said.  _ With the genetic modifications, we can use him as a donor to create a resilient population once we can get the research to get a female. In fact, give him the hormone injections, he'll be useful if he has a better production and sex drive than a normal male of his species. _

 

There's a reason why no one knows about that particular memory. Not even Groot, and that's not because of the jokes he'd get for having a greater than normal sex drive engineered into him.

 

It's because at Rocket's core, he worries that the scientists were right at his sessions. The sessions are what terrify him down deep the most.

 

_ You think we're cruel,  _ Glasses said.  _ The galaxy is cruel. We are your protectors against a greater population that will look at you and see a monster, a freak of nature that we made. We are your fathers. We will protect you, and all you must do is do what we need. You are a monster, poor boy, but you are a monster with purpose. Without us, you have none. _

 

That's the problem, the reason Rocket had a hard time believing Quill when Quill wanted him to save the galaxy, to gain a purpose, a 'second chance'. He had destroyed his first one; and so since he had no purpose, he was going to spread that pain to others. He might as well do what he wanted, because what purpose did life have?

 

Rocket shuddered; this was the part he remembered most. After the cordial was removed, after the lessons on weaponry and bomb making, he had over heard Them speaking. Arguing; outside of his clean white cell.

 

_ The subject is showing too much independence, and possible aggression towards his minders.  _ This wasn't Glasses; a man with a cold, detached voice.  _ The Master is getting impatient. _

 

Glasses spoke, and Rocket, a name he secretly named himself from a data chip that he had left them, and part of the database talking about exploration among the stars; listened to Glasses argue. It wasn't really arguing. It was more a discussion of a fact that was unlikely to change.  _ He may be getting impatient, but we're making progress. Already, the firearms and the stratagem simulations both show him at 195% to potential. The brain stimulants are working DOUBLE. That 'independent subject', in his fields, is smarter than you or I. His mechanical aptitude testing is off the chart. And you want to destroy him? _

 

_ He's picked out a name for himself. The subject is too individual.  _ Again, that voice.

 

_ One week. Let us try to break what he has left in one week.  _ Glasses said, bargaining.  _ Let us gather the data from his body, get samples so maybe cloning can occur. I can only hope there's no degradation; the genetic modifications are more particular than his implants.  _ (Both past and modern Rocket snorted at this. The amount of particular itching, scratching and pain in his back, real and imagined, proved to Rocket that his genetic toying was not as -particular- as the hardware they put in him.)

 

_ One week. Let's hope we're not making a mistake.  _ Footprints. They were walking away.

 

Rocket proved he was ready for war. The damnable thing, and the reason why, if there is a Hell, he might go there: he killed at least half a dozen people in his escape when the bombs went off. He didn't kill them for money, or to save the galaxy, or even to stop their plans for him.

 

He killed them because he knew if he didn't, he wouldn't survived. They would of destroyed him.

 

It was child's play to get a gun and get to the shortest amount to the pod. All he can remembered was flashes, sometimes of dead faces. He managed to figure out the nav of an escape pod long enough to escape. All of him wishes he got as many of Them. He hates Them. They made him monster willing to kill a number of Them to live.

 

He made friends with that monster quickly. After all, before his friends, and in particular, Groot, who never judged him, never insulted him, and put up with the fact that he was pushing anyone away who was willing to get close, he had only the monster. The instinct that he had to get what he had to. Learning the concept of money wasn't hard. After breaking out of a science lab, destroying the names of himself and everyone who lived there, what was prison?

 

They taught him to shackle the monster, bit by bit; but he's still friends with it. Because one of these days someone will want to fuck with one of the others.

 

And they'll find that a monstrous freak meant to be a super soldier, now a super thug is more than ready for the task to protect the only things he has. Them. And that keeps him going, moderates the influences of shooting shit and blowing it up. (Although that has to be the best stuff of the knowledge he still has.)

 

This has passed quickly, sooner than he had hoped. Rocket begins to yawn, curled up into almost a fetal ball, and drifts into the realm of slumber.

 


	2. Gamora

The _Milano_ was a small vessel. _At least this version of it isn't the scow Quill first took us on,_ Gamora mused. This made it difficult to find peace outside of one's room, and between jobs after one saves the galaxy, there was a lot of time for peace. Sometimes you spent it practicing the same forms over and over, feeling the augmented joints. Other times, however, you just wanted to think. Quill was too noisy to think near, with him blasting _Awesome Mix 1_ and _2_ into the cockpit. Plus he wanted to flirt, a hobby she had unsuccessfully tried to dissuade him from on multiple occasions. She didn't mind the music, but it wasn't conducive to thought.

_Peter Quill wouldn't be bad looking up until the point he opens his mouth._

Not that Gamora was looking for dating opportunities. One of the things that Thanos insisted of his “daughters” is the understanding that procreation in and of itself was a means to a singular end, not a hobby. It's what you did to get close to your target, not something you should engage in as a hobby. Thanos was very good in encouraging his “family” not to have hobbies.

She had considered spending her meditations with Drax. This worked well except Drax was inquisitive after a point, and had a bad habit of every so often lapsing into his pet name of his for her. Green wench. It had taken Peter an attempt to break up the inevitable fight, and when that didn't work, Rocket used one of his new “personnel suspension” flash bangs. She couldn't see straight for an hour. Rocket found it hilarious. At least she could derive some joy from the fact, that in that particular instance, seeing straight and only seeing sunspots of pain, it had been worse for Drax, who wasn't augmented at all.

The mention of Rocket reminded her of where she eventually would go and contemplate. The engine room, where the raccoon had set up his work space, tinkering with this gun or making that repair or bomb. Peter had insisted, really; the small mammal had been leaving things out all over the ship and since Rocket was more than capable of creating devices to _destroy moons_ , it had been a compromise to make sure they didn't destroy the _Milano_ and half the galaxy they just saved.

It worked well for Gamora, because aside from the occasional swearing from Rocket when he was on the job and the sounds of his tinkering and occasional conversations with Groot, it was a fine place to be reflective. There had been exactly one conversation about it, once when Rocket was doing a particularly difficult and fine repair.

“Are you here to stare at the freak?” he growled at her, bearing his teeth, all of them. She had better reflexes than he, but she had seen him bite. It wouldn't do to draw his ire.

“No, Rocket. I'm reflecting.” Her tone was mollifying, but flat.

He seemed to believe her, because in a 'I'm-annoyed-at-this-ship' tone, not his 'You're-pissing-me-off-and-I'm-probably-going-to-bite-you-until-you-bleed' tone, he said, “Could ya think the spanner this way, then. Fucking drive assembly.”

And except for the occasional request for a tool, neither he or Groot has seemed to bother her since then. It worked well; Rocket could get someone to assist by handing parts that the still growing Groot couldn't hand him, and she could get some relative contemplation peace.

She thought about many things. About the oddity, after so much time of being Thanos' daughter, reviled by many worlds in the galaxy (twenty three, at last count) of having friends, even surly, anti-social ones like Rocket, of what happened when they touched the stone, of the assured next move of Thanos. Which inevitably took her down the hallway of memory, to her own origins.

She knew Rocket and Peter spent most of their time not thinking about their troubled pasts; the former getting horrible nightmares from the sublimation, and the latter doing nothing except play those tapes repeatedly, seeming to call up better times. Drax, on the other hand spent many moments continuing to fuel his revenge, having only learned barely from his defeat at the hands of Ronin to plan smarter, not harder.

She embraced the thought of hers, not out of pride, but out of reminding herself why she left in the first place.

 

_Inevitability. It was the first lesson that Thanos taught the worlds he claimed. It was inevitable when Thanos claimed your world as his, your people would die._

_Gamora was maybe seven when inevitability came for her. Her father was part of the defense force, the protectors of her world, that empire. They had tried to evacuate the worlds as Thanos took them one by one. It was much like having a vice around your neck. Your people choked when the Titan squeezed. And squeezed he did, creating obliteration in his wake._

_Occasionally, Thanos would be moved to mercy. His mercy, however, was the horrible kind of mercy, a mocking amusement for the party of one. A chance to create family, Heralds of his coming, of his wrath. Generally speaking, it took years for him to get in gear, to continue his aftermath. Thanos had years however._

_She didn't remember how she got the laser pistol. She vaguely remembers pulling the trigger, targetting the vanguard. She does remember in horror as her hand continued to hold down the trigger, draining the battery, hoping, praying to get the tyrant that just killed her family, her friends, her entire way of life, and it doing nothing. She might as well have spit in his general direction._

_She figures she had to have come out of hiding or something, but she never can remember Before. If she envied Peter and Drax one thing, it's that they remember Before. She just remembers that cold laugh, her initiation into being one of Thanos's daughters_ _clear as bells._

_“This female, at her age, has proven to have more courage than most of this entire planet. She will do for our purposes. Prepare her.”_

 

_Sometimes in her quietest moments, Gamora can hear the screams. Remember the voices of destruction, but they're always wordless to her, blocked behind some kind of wall set in her brain. Was it something Thanos did to her, or something she did to herself?_

 

_Thanos believed in anesthetic, at least. Or, really, just enough to make you numb. Between surgeries, as they cut open her body, replacing entire parts with metal, the smell of it wafting through her nose. It's a bitter tang, almost a whirr for the nose. She looks up at the faces looking down at her. It is no surprise there are no faces, really. There are maybe two glints of light being refracted fron one of the faces. They give her lung capacity, arm and leg flexibility, enhanced reflexes (say what you will about Thanos being a monster, he's a through monster; she once tested the reflexes against Rocket, who also had his enhanced and is a raised animal known for reflexes faster than a humans, and she's .23 seconds faster than he is), and a sort of behavioral modification in her spine. It's designed to burn the insolence out of her._

_She remembers the first time he uses it. It's after the surgeries and the starvation, the last to make her pliable. It was really simple; you knelt in front of the sadistic being that you would call father. If not, there's a horrible snap in the air, like the crunch of teeth, and your body would seize up, you would act like a doll as the surging energy moved through you. And then you'd find yourself on your knees, the jolting paralysis holding you there. It was the exquisite meeting of two of Thanos's favorite impulses; causing something pain and sublimating free will. He enjoyed it if it took more than once for you to learn that lesson._

_With Gamora, it took six times. She did later learn that the implant that caused the reaction did short out after so long, and it was considered risky to replace it. It didn't matter. You knelt anyway, and those with implants that did burn out found out that there was a reverse panacea effect to them: you knew the implant didn't work, you KNEW, but when Thanos made that gesture to activate it, you were paralyzed and on your knees anyhow._

_After a week of orientation: isolation, obedience, and starvation, they would give you company and food. Tell you the truth about how lucky you were to be alive, how merciful Thanos was and how he would share the secret of how to ascend your weak flesh. There was once she told her teammates about this; horror in everyone's eyes—well, almost everyone. Rocket gave her the weary look of someone who'd suffered like you have; a kind of look of warriors who saw the aftermath of the same battle. Peter used an odd term to describe the gratitude you felt toward Thanos after his systematic torture of you, something called “Stockholm Syndrome”._

_Wherever on Terra this Stockholm is, it doesn't sound like very fun._

_Meeting the other “Children of Thanos” was eye opening. You were placed in a dorm. There was no privacy; modesty was a physical failing. Each morning would be the same: shower, dress in what you were provided; tune-up of implants, and then to the Pit._

_The Pit was both the place where the lessons happened and where the place of the Pariah was chosen for that day. It was simple; the instructor, a devotee would rank you all mentally, and then choose two of you. The loser became the pariah: half rations and the other children would be cruel to them, on threat of being treated like a pariah themselves. You would continue, hungry, insulted, beat upon for the tiniest of failures, blamed for others mistakes. It was like prison except for the sexual abuse that would happen there: a devotee of Thanos had no such urges, and the food was spiked to keep such interests low._

_You learned not to be the pariah after the second week as the new girl. You got to know which of your brothers and sisters were less harsh during those times and which ones were sadistic. Nebula, surprisingly, was one of the ones that tended to be less harsh. She often said, in the periods of quiet of their bunk assignments, that there was NO NEED to overly pick on the pariah. That anyone who was strong enough not to be the pariah didn't need the ritual anyhow._

_Thanos oversees his children's growth every week; on that day, the pariah fight is a tournament to see who was the strongest, the best. The winner became the favorite of Thanos. The weakest lost their life. Failure was something that other people tolerated, not Thanos._

_When Gamora won the first time, she eliminated in the first round Thanos's old favorite, a boy with dusky brown skin, white eyes and curiously, blonde hair. He lost in the quickest amount of time and was declared the weakest. Gamora doesn't dream very often, but sometimes, when she closes her eyes, she can still hear him scream._

 

She doesn't do it herself; she gets nothing out of it, considering her body's waste filtration units just jettison it as poisons anyway (a necessary thing as Thanos's daughter and assassin), but after she knows them, she gets why Rocket, Peter and Drax often drink to excess. She envies them their ability to forget. She doesn't envy Rocket the nightmares, Drax the ghosts, and Peter the demons, however. Sometimes, when she closes her eyes, she can see Thanos, hear his voice speaking approvingly at her, and it seems nothing's changed at all. That's when, even when the three of them are drunk and Groot doing whatever he does, (she's subconsciously thought them of as her boys, even though she'd never ever confess that to them, even Drax who she fights with the most and she'd wish he'd put in a sock in it when he calls her “green wench”) they look at her oddly; and she has to remind herself that here on the _Milano_ that he isn't here and cannot see.

 

When Gamora does this, they know. The stare is one of concern; she doesn't answer to any external stimulus when it happens, and Peter almost got his arm broken when she snapped out of it once after he tried shaking her, half in the reverie she was in.

 

“I'm sorry,” she had said, beginning to frame in her mind the next sentence, to explain.

 

“Nah,” Peter had said, grinning that roguish grin of his. “There's nothing quite like almost getting your arm ripped off like by a pretty lady.” She gives him the disbelieving look, the look telling him she knows his game, her flush up a bit. The unspoken between them is she knows she's been forgiven, even though she doesn't deserve it. At all.

 

 

_The catechism of Thanos is simple, as taught in the Pit: Thanos is the strongest, so he should hold power over all things. Thanos made you better than you were, so you should revere him._

 

_Devotees of Thanos are to get rid of their weaknesses and become stronger, more like Thanos. Non-followers of Thanos are to have their weaknesses exploited for their destruction._

 

_That was it. The lessons really were simple: how to use how someone would find you attractive, finding out what your marks vulnerabilities were and exploiting them, and maintaining the purity that Thanos expected after missions._

 

_She remembers the first time. A family has an object they stole from Thanos (later, this was found out to be a lie told to the children by creatures who begged Thanos not to kill them, the children would kill them for their duplicity; the objects were planted) and the children were supposed to recover the object, and slay the family. And any other witnesses._

_She was at the flower of womanhood, as the poets would say. It was entirely too easy for her to get their son to take her home, convinced of her lust for him. It was entirely too easy to plant the bomb for the family when they came home, making sure their son was the last thing they saw before they were immolated in Thanos's rage. It was too easy to take the object, and at the time, she knew that this family, a Xandarian family that was middle class with no connections to Thanos (although, she would find out later, did have connections to do with war spending against the Kree) that would not have the resources or cunning to do such a thing as steal from Thanos. She learned not to question. Externally._

_Internally, there was a voice, reminding her that this was wrong. That the purity of the cause of Thanos was hidden, that she was a pawn on his board. He, however, continued to shower her with gifts and praise. She had fallen out with Nebula since she continued to win the tournaments and Nebula was the only one close to her level, and when she offered to share...Nebula had scoffed._

_“Dearest sister. Sharing is weak. That's what makes me angry about this. You still have such weakness, and yet he_ loves _you.”_

_“Sister, I do not_ _**need** _ _his love.” She still feels the sting of the cheek where Nebula slapped her._

 

Gamora can't even say now why she told Nebula why she didn't need Thanos's love. Maybe then she knew it was a lie, that she worked for Thanos for one, very good reason: survival. She knew that Thanos would take over the galaxy and the universe and all other universes, so why not be on the winning team? Even now, she struggles with the idea of family in the sense of not being things you manipulate, of winning as the underdog. The ideas are getting better to actualize—she recognizes them as part of her lessons Before—but she knows what Thanos is capable of, of how many mad beings are a part of his army, lured by their weaknesses, hoping to join the winning team.

 

_It wasn't Thanos that drove her away, if she was honest. Thanos was too terrible to confront directly. It was Ronan, and how he treated both her and Nebula. With Thanos—Thanos_ _**understood** _ _one thing if nothing else. Fear and praise were both weapons, and you must apply both of them to get the correct result._

_Ronan only understood fear. He ranted about how he'd destroy all of his enemies, as the Accuser, and he was worshiped for his battle prowess. But he had been in command too long. It was when she managed to destroy leaks that were going to warn his enemies of his plan, his masterstroke, she found out who Ronan was. When no praise came, just the grim expectation of 'it will be done', she realized that he was going to clean the slate. Destroy her and himself and everything he was fighting for._

_Gamora, the ultimate survivor, the daughter of Thanos who slaughtered hundreds for his passing, but could not slaughter trillions because doing so would be foolish, there's nothing to rule when you literally have nothing, made plans against Ronan the Accuser then. And Thanos himself, for in Ronan, she finally saw what happened to religious figures like her father._

 

“'Mora?” The voice is oddly soft. Rocket. “Um, I asked for that spanner like three fucking times. Everythin' ok in that ticker of yours?”

 

“No, Rocket.” She doesn't even notice the tears; tears were from Before.

 

“Ya...wanna see a doctor or somethin'?” Unspoken, beneath the rough exterior of the raccoon, were the words: _we can talk if you like._

 

“No, Rocket.” She looked at him, and took a deep breath. “Thank you, Rocket.” She got up.

 

“A'ight. Tomorrow?”

 

“Tomorrow.” The voice was final, putting an end to the conversation.

 

Heading to her room Gamora realized something she could never tell Rocket. He would never believe her; but she thought if Rocket was a monster, he was an accidental one. She was the deliberate monster, killing hundreds, even thousands of people without remorse because she had to survive.

 

And now her need to make up for it, and the knowledge that even if she saves the galaxy a million more times, there was no way to, was what kept her going.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a hard chapter to write, actually, because Gamora in the movie is kind of a flat character. We know she's the daughter and assassin of Thanos and the last of her race; we know she and Nebula have some kind of relationship. This is just simply one guess and based on no previous canon for Guardians. I wanted Gamora's narrative to be more about impossible redemption with different motivations and feelings on being a monster than Rocket. 
> 
> I'm still not sure it's good, but it's going up as is.
> 
> PS--If you're reading this on fanfiction.net, this is the exact same fic. Chapter 3 should hopefully be up within a week or so. It's slower going.


	3. Chapter 3: Peter Quill

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter jumps around in time a bit. There are movie spoilers. There are parts where it's actually Yondu's perspective and not Peter's, and Peter couldn't know about the events that happened (or Yondu's personal thoughts). I considered just writing Peter's perspective, but it became maddeningly clear that the chapter would only be half told that way, so I left it in.
> 
> Most of this chapter is in italics; that's deliberate, since most of it is happening in Peter's memories, not the "present".
> 
> **Added new ending to Chapter 3 to help with perspective jumps.**

Monster, Chapter 3

It occurred to Peter Quill that his problem had always been that he never fit in. He loved his mother, but she had, in her way, made things worse with her stories about his father. Unbidden, almost as if another strain of music on his mix tapes, he remembered one particular day at school before Yondu's faithful abduction of him.  
 _There had always been bullies in his small community of Colorado. It was maybe first grade; and he might have maybe tried to defend one of his more studious classmates. And he might of gotten hit at recess. That hadn't been so bad, until his big mouth started to run._  
 _“One of these days, my dad's going to come down from the sky and beat you all up.”_  
 _Now, while being hung by your underwear on the monkey bars was horrible, the words “Sky Freak” hurt that much worse. What's worse, when he had finally got down and tried to see if the kid he had rescued was OK, the kid stared at him, and without missing a beat, went:_  
 _“I don't need to be friends with a Sky Freak like you.”_  
That, and his mother's cancer, marked the first part of Peter Quill's lonely childhood.  
Sky Freak. He hadn't thought about that in years. It drives him crazy sometimes how nostalgic he is for a place that hated him so much. Earth hadn't been good to its Prodigal Son when he was there. And yet; with the Awesome Mixes One and Two, he admitted that he missed the music. That with saving the galaxy, he had saved Earth, too. Had wanted to save Earth, even those bullies.  
 _I'm willing to bet they don't have their own star ship. Peter Quill 1-Bullies of Earth 0._  
Peter, in the present, smiled. After all, sometimes it's thoughts like that, that keep you going.

It is sometimes hard to be Peter Quill, the legendary Star-Lord, roguish bandit and leader of the Guardians of the Galaxy. One reason is the petty fights that teams—no, scratch that, more like families have. There was an incident with Rocket and the toaster and the inevitable discussion on how we don't try to turn household items into mini-nuclear devices, please. Particularly not the breakfast appliances.  
“You suck the joy out of everything,” had been the raccoon's retort that particular morning.  
“How would you even manage to do it, Rocket? It's something I found in a market right after we defeated Ronin that was maybe a credit and a half. It was considered an 'antique'.” Gamora gives him the 'you really shouldn't ask if you don't want to know that answer' look. Apparently, with her ritual with Rocket, she's managed to figure out that he can make a weapon or a spaceship part out of anything.  
The description is lengthy, and he was lost somewhere among the second expletive laden sentence. Apparently, there was a way to make a toaster that wants to make the galaxy burn. And yet, he can't help but oddly appreciate Rocket's effort. No, not on the toaster—he just wanted a damn piece of toast, after all—but the fact that Rocket hadn't discarded Peter as too dumb to try to explain this to.  
Drax's voice breaks him out of the Rocket admiring reverie asking the raccoon, “Excuse me, small one, (Rocket hated the nickname, but accepted it as a few steps up from vermin or animal, a sign of Drax's emotional growth) but how does one work with a fucking heat coil? And how does a heat coil 'fuck'?”  
Peter was laughing on the inside, he really was; but he sighed the sigh of the long suffering and said, “Hyperbole, Drax.”  
“Oh.” was the answer from the tattooed warrior. A pause. “Has it occurred to you all to say exactly what you mean and are thinking?”  
“Once or twice.” Peter said, walking back to the cockpit, but thought to himself; _not on your life._

Having a maniac that barely understood sarcasm, a regenerating sapling man who can only verbalize three (well, Peter remembered from the Dark Aster, five) words (Groot was making steady progress everyday, per Rocket), a deadly assassin with the tormented past of a lost little girl, and a genetically modified raccoon who swore like a sailor and took his displeasure at everyone and everything via creating weapons of mass destruction really weren't the hard parts of Peter's life. They drove you crazy, but the things and people you love did that. And he loved them, not that he'd admit it, since the last person he loved this much...well, she left. He put on the mix tape, and drifted off mentally to a world that was light years away and years ago.

_Peter was shivering. There was such a thing as aliens, and they were making noises that he couldn't decipher to save his own life. They were escorting him (those guns were probably the ray guns mentioned in Moonage Daydream) and he found himself complying, still numb, into a holding cell. Shock buoyed him for a while, stopped him from feeling, but eventually, the soul shattering part of him that remembered he was now kidnapped—and more importantly, lost his mother, broke. He doesn't remember when he passed out from the exhaustion of crying._

_Yondu, on the other hand, was pissed off. That's what happened with you dealt with royalty from distant planets; their idea of **noblesse obilge** was making sure you took it up the ass. Hard._   
_“What do you mean, the price has changed?” Yondu snarled at the masked figure. Yondu, being an infamous space pirate and purveyor of all things illegal (at least, in his own mind) knew that this wasn't the person who wanted the boy. This was an intermediary to the person who wanted the boy and wanted to keep their identity secret._   
_“The. Price. Has. Changed. We're not real impressed with your work, Mister Yondu. Even now, we're working with Terra governments to hide the fact that aliens had landed. We hired you to be discreet in your retrieval operation. Practically landing your ship not that far from a hospital isn't it.”_   
_“There's virtually no profit for me and my guys at that price. And excuse me if I point out that if you wanted finesse and secretivity, you should of sent one of your spec ops teams, not a illegal mercenary group that calls themselves the Ravagers, numbnuts*.”_   
_(*=This is actually a Centarian insult involving testicles, their version of a goat, and being suspended while you get kicked there repeatedly. Numbnuts is the universal translator version.)_   
_Yondu couldn't believe it. The entire mission had a window of only a few days to grab the kid. Granted, the kid had come to them, and that was great; but apparently human funerary rites were both public and not really easy to steal a Terran child from. The hospital, hopefully timed for when the kid's mother had died had been the best time. Not to mentioned that fucktard here wanted the child before too many cycles._   
_“It's very simple. You get us the child for the price we name. Otherwise, you can do whatever you want with the child you like. You could even return him,” the voice said patiently, as if describing this to a particularly stupid person, “although I'm sure Nova Corps will be by soon to address the violation of the secrecy clause.”_   
_“A clause which you helped us violate.” Yondu gritted out._   
_“You had other options. If you read your contract, we have deniably in the actions of the Ravagers. Have a good cycle.” The sound of the view screen turning off filled the room, with Yondu tossing anything loose he can find._   
_“Sir?” his first mate asked. “Some of the crew are asking what the best way to have Terran is. I don't believe they're planning on having him for dinner. Or more to the point, they are having him for dinner, but not as a guest.” The call had been taken in the cockpit, and the gossip of Yondu's ship traveled fast._   
_This was not the best day for the Captain of the Ravagers. “Tell them whoever even speculates on eating the cargo will get a tour of our airlocks and then they will continue to see the wonders of the galaxy outside the ship. If I'm particularly kind, they might get a breathing mask to consider for the remaining minutes of their live where they went horribly wrong. Get a translator in the kid. Let me worry about a buyer.”_

_Peter woke up, remarking to himself how utterly thirsty he was and how hard the 'cot' was. And his senses were beginning to play that game of 'what's that smell'? And why did his head hurt, like a little bee buzzing in his ear._   
_“We had some work done while you were out,” said a voice on the other side of the door. He recognized, in a muddle, that the words weren't English, but he understood them. He blinked in amazement. “Yeah, getting a translator will do that do you. Inner ear canal, translates sounds to ones you recognize.”_   
_“How long...? And can I go home?” Peter stammered out._   
_“About three cycles (the translator helpfully explained that was days in Peter's mind) and no, ya can't. Your authorities and our authorities will be coming down on us hard, thanks to you spotting us.” A kernel of an idea on how to explain this registered in Yondu's mind. “We were looking for valuable shit, not a snot-nosed little monster gawking at us. I don't have the capability to wipe your mind, probe your ass and leave you in a cornfield.”_   
_Somehow, Peter's mind fixated on one detail, and not the anal probing. “I'm not a monster!”_   
_“Kid, all Terrans are monsters.” Yondu said flatly. “You pollute your planet, you kill each other probably at a higher rate than anyone else in the galaxy that would even make Thanos proud. Plus, you worry about how the fuck you're different from each other. Each. Other. Xandarians and Kree may be getting off on their little war, but they're not worried about skin color quite so much.”_   
_Peter blinked, more overwhelmed at the lecture than anything else. “But aren't you...human...ish?”_   
_Yondu laughed at the ignorance. At least it was cute. “The majority of races walk on two legs. My biology is much different than yours. I wouldn't worry about that if I was ya.”_   
_“What...should I worry about?” His voice trembled._   
_“What I'm gonna do to you next. If you're lucky, I'll find someone who wants a Terran freak or maybe make you my cabin boy. If you're unlucky...well, I've got an entire crew that's got creative culinary needs. You dig?” Yondu was certain he wasn't going to eat the kid, but compliance and gratitude could go a long way toward obedience._   
_“Please don't eat me! I can be useful. I promise!”_   
_“We'll see, kid. Dethi will come by with some holostuff. You've got a lot of learning ta do.” And with that, Yondu's footsteps retreated._

_Events had eventually been sent in motion, like a bullet fired from a gun. Peter never knew whether or not to be grateful or not. His education had begun, but it was no mean feat. Yondu never seemed to find anyone who would want a 'Terran freak'._   
_Although, a few weeks after Yondu's discussion with him (to which the captain had been distant, aloof, and checking his teeth like one would a horse), Yondu brought a visitor. The visitor was...unnerving to say the least. There was a Xandarian wearing thick glasses, the eyes luminous behind the frames, ending almost in sparks. Peter at once felt terrified and hypnotized. Yondu had used the word 'freak' to describe him, but under this man's gaze, he felt like a freak, to examined, to be taken apart._   
_“He's quite the specimen, Mr. Yondu.” That voice was terrifying in a quantity he couldn't place._   
_“Yeah. Could you stop being creepy as frack in front of the kid, please? He's wet his front.” Yondu said, arms crossed. That explained the bizarre warmth that Peter felt._   
_“Alright. Should we discuss...arrangements?” That voice. It was like a whip. Yondu snorted and nodded, stepping out of Peter's cell._

_Knowhere had a wealth of conference rooms. They weren't conference rooms in the sense of there were a number of beings in chair adorned with suits making decisions of importance for a company or cartel._   
_No, what Knowhere had was a number of back rooms where beings of various sorts could transact business, very discretely for a discreet price. There was just one rule to that: make sure your price was discreet enough so no one would want to pay to discern what you wanted to talk about. Besides the fact that the buyer was creepy as fuck, the fact that this particular host of this particular backroom looked terrified and was very solicitous didn't sit with Yondu._   
_“Three hundred thousand credits,” The creepy fuck was saying, Yondu paying half attention._   
_“Nah. Kid's worth hundred times that.” Yondu said distractedly._   
_“My superiors would be willing to front that much. A Terran, particularly a young, well taken care of one would be rare enough for us to be interested.”_   
_“Kid's not for sale.”_   
_“I believe, Mr. Yondu, you are making a--” A whistle ended the sentence of the Xandarian, feeling the point of an arrow at his throat._   
_“You. Don't. Wan't. To. Finish. That. Threat,” Yondu drawled out the words, “You seem to think you're dealing with a certain level of scum here. I wish to inform you that you are wrong. I have no compunction of paying our host additional to clean up your body and despose your body. No, no. You're looking like you're wanting to speak. Don't speak. I'm leaving, with the boy. Nod if you understand.”_   
_Yondu saw the nod. He whistled, the arrow following him. Thirty million credits; but no one deserved the look that the creep had given Yondu discussing the boy. Still...sometimes it didn't pay to be the principled kind of scum._

_Peter had heard that it took many different people to raise a child. The Ravagers were an odd family, but a family nonetheless. The bad parts were the fact that most of the Ravagers would call him a 'Terran freak' or 'their honorary pet Terran', 'the captain's personal pet boy', or cuff him to get him out of the way. The good parts is that school was...actually fun. Pickpocketing. (It turns out that in a mixed race group, Terrans looked 'average' enough to practically be invisible). How to be charming enough to run a fleecing scam. How to jury-rig a ship to keep her flying after you've taken damage (although, to adult Peter's chagrin, Rocket had been million more times adept at this than he had ever been) and how to keep her flying. How to shoot. (Again, another thing he found annoying about Rocket; the raccoon was an excellent marksman.) Peter found, at adolescence, that making the crew laugh earned him a place on it; and that charm worked better when you didn't have the menace of say, Yondu, backing it up._   
_Yondu was a bizarre contradiction. At times, the captain seemed to delight to remind Peter that he was little more than a stowaway, the legacy of something gone wrong (he considered, after a point, that Yondu might be his father, a thought that continued to cause him to shudder) and then there was time the captain would call him his boy, telling the crew to step off when Peter inevitably did something wrong (even then, with the beatings, he never did something wrong twice)._   
_Yondu, captain of the Ravagers, master of contradictions._   
_He was mildly gratified when Yondu had told his engineer to help with and galvanize the Walkman and tape inside. No one in the Ravagers had ever asked, and he never told them, but somehow everyone involved knew how precious it was to Peter._   
_It had surprised him when Yondu taught him how to pick up women._   
_It had surprised him even more when Yondu deducted his cut from a particularly lucrative job and gave him the Milano._

_So, when Peter had (kind of) betrayed Yondu to get the orb (the first time), it was just business. He had suspected that Yondu wasn't paying out the cut he could, and the buyer he had was going to pay dividends over what Yondu would of paid him for his buyer. Having seen Yondu do similar to people over the years, he suspected that Yondu would be angry, but not murderous about it._

_Yondu was pissed off (professionally). He had done everything for that kid, and this is how he repaid him?_   
_Actually, everything was going exactly to plan._   
_Yondu had expected this, had driven Peter toward it. Frankly, for being a little Terran monster, there was more of Yondu in Peter than Yondu'd admit. When he had left his boss to form the Ravagers, it had been over a small job like the orb. Yondu knew what Peter wouldn't admit, that even as a free agent with as much freedom as Yondu gave Peter, it was time for Peter to get a group of his own._   
_There were men on Yondu's boat that would never be anything but Ravagers, that they enjoyed the cut and the little structure that Yondu gave them as long as Yondu paid on time._   
_Peter Jason Quill was not one of them. The kid would not be on a team unless he was at least an equal, or leading it. And Yondu wasn't looking for partners._   
_So, time to cut the kid loose. He would have to threaten; yes, that was part of the game, and if the kid ever showed up again...there'd better be a damn good reason for it._

_Peter had felt helpless watching Gamora drift through space._   
_He had never done good with helpless. So, he did the stupid thing. Knowing Yondu would have a entirely poor reaction to being burnt, he realized he had to take the chance. He drifted out to space, ignoring Rocket's cries, threats (his heart lurched to hear the raccoon, actually—Rocket sounded how he felt when he saw Gamora, and he felt helpless to help Rocket with this), he did the one thing that might keep him alive, putting his mask to keep the assassin alive. He called Yondu, the only parent he'd ever known, except from Before, when his mother was still alive._   
_He had expected Yondu to treat him roughly—he had, after all, essentially tried to screw him out of credits, but the arrow to the throat was different. Was a bit much. As he progressed through the explanation of why he needed the Ravager's help, he couldn't help but notice things were different this time._

_Yondu knew things were different this time. First off, he hadn't expected the boy back. Secondly, the boy had gotten into the kind of trouble that was...unique to say the least. After the 'rescue' mission from the boy's friends and promise to secure the Infinity Stone, the Ravager captain had been left to his devices on the way to think on Xandar._   
_Honestly, he had already mentally agreed to say yes to whatever Peter needed to have happen, as long as the boy was willing to sweeten the pot so Yondu could save face._   
_Peter rarely disappointed. Now had been no different._   
_Still, it had been a surprise when the raccoon cyborg had shown up threatening to destroy the ship if they didn't return Peter and the green woman. Yondu wondered if the bounty hunter animal would be interested in some work on weapon systems on the side. Yondu could appreciate a good weapon when he saw one. Both the gun and the green woman were very good weapons._   
_He actually didn't want the Infinity Stone, however. Frankly, he knew it'd be better in Nova Corps' hands. Let them worry about it. He still had a bloodthirsty crew to satisfy, and he knew that the stone was worth it's weight in millions of credits._   
_So, he made the deal that Peter would have no choice but to accept and either screw Yondu or turn the stone in to him, which he'd have to make sure the buyers didn't walk directly to Thanos._   
_It was a test. He hoped that little Terran monster didn't actually turn out to be a monster._

_Peter was reeling. They had managed to save the galaxy with the power of love. Friendship love, not the pelvic-y kind. He couldn't even mentally form the quip that he wouldn't mind that kind of thing with Gamora; he was too strung out, too exposed between himself, Gamora, Drax and Rocket. Naked. (Although he had to admit, the look on Ronan's face during the dance-off and when they had managed to control the stone was priceless.) However, he had the presence of mind to switch the items when Yondu came looking for his prize. His life could stand to be forfeit if the galaxy kept spinning, and after basking in the glow of the warmth of his team—his team, he reminded himself—he knew that it was a small price to pay._

_It was time for the payoff. Yondu was either going to get a huge payoff or the utmost faith in the boy that he raised. He opened the orb, curiously._   
_He saw the troll doll within. Son of a bitch. Not only did he raise the boy right—there are few things better than money, but the entire galaxy was one of them—he always wanted one of those Terran troll figurines. He laughed, and oddly, even though they knew they weren't going to get paid for the last job, his crew laughed with him._   
_As he expressed, not for the first time, but never in front of Peter, that he was glad he didn't drop him off with that asshole of a father Peter had, he couldn't help but feel pride that his son had finally found a group of his own—the Guardians of the Galaxy._

_As Star-Lord declared they were off to do a 'bit of both', he looked around his crew of misfits. He had known and felt Rocket's injuries, physical, mental, emotional and spiritual; Gamora's outer assassin warring with her inner lost girl, Drax's pain and the feeling that he had to do anything to fill the hole his wife and daughter had left, and his own painful legacy left by being raised by space pirates, the epiphany hit him. Were they freaks? Maybe. Were they criminals? Certainly. Were they kicked around, battered and bruised by the entire galaxy? No argument there._   
_One thing they weren't, and would never be, was monsters. Yondu, the scientists and Gamora's victims were all wrong. None of them were monsters._

"Milano to Peter," came a rough accented voice that didn't quite fit with Peter's musings. How did Rocket manage to affect a very human accent being a space raccoon? Not that he'd tell Rocket about raccoons, now; he knew how sensitive he was about it. "Come in, Quill."

"Yeah?" Peter turned around, still in the cockpit at the pilot's chair. He had put his headphones back in, and apparently hadn't been paying attention with his internalizing.

"What I flarkin' said was, we need to stop in a few parsecs to get a part for one of the drive coils unless you like your ship engine losing power. Fucking Xandarians couldn't assemble a much more than working engine if they had the best parts in the galaxy. Also, 'Mora and Drax want to go shopping, in Mora's words, 'to get decor that doesn't resemble a rustbucket'.' You OK? I can set a new course and take over if you want." Rocket actually sounded oddly concerned, an aural cue that indicated to Peter that this wasn't the first time in the last few minutes he had tried to get Peter's attention.

"No, Ranger Rick," He ignored Rocket's scowl with ease, noticing that the light in the raccoon's eyes went from concerned to slightly annoyed at the pet name. "I'm just fine." There was a companionable silence for a minute, and Peter said, "I think we all are."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, there are still chapters for Drax and Groot coming. This ending seemed...while, almost saccharine hopeful in tone, seemed right for this chapter. Peter has different baggage and viewpoints than Rocket (who's dealing with horror) and Gamora (who probably didn't even have the childhood Peter did and now has to live with not being Thanos's weapon). All of the above is more or less headcanon; and I had hoped to capture a complex relationship between Peter and his adoptive father, Yondu, without writing Stockholm Syndrome. The next chapter will be up...when it's up.


	4. Chapter 4: Groot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've not looked at the new ending to Chapter 3, I recommend you look at it now; it hopefully helps fix the time jumps (probably not the switches in perspective, but what are you gonna do?). This, I have a feeling, will be a lighter chapter before I jump back into the revenge fueled and motivated Drax chapter.

_Groot hadn't even known what the word meant. From the shifts in body temperature and the scent of anger, more than the normal smell of bravado and constant irritation and pain, of his little companion, however, he knew it hadn't been good._

_“You better fucking take that back,” A whirr of a gun, one of their clients apparently had been mouthy again, and Rocket now had the gun pointed at the man's crotch, “or you'll much much less of a man.”_

_“OK, OK. I won't insult the plant anymore.” Their client had walked away, but Groot felt and Rocket heard the word “Freak.”_

_The man's screams had filled the chamber in the hallway of the planet they were on._

 

Groot stirred in his pot; memories of the Spring and Summer Before had come back slowly, but come back they did. He also remembered that thankfully Rocket hadn't killed the man who had upset him, but the small raccoon had smelled like aggression, his words vibrating in the air like knives when he had to explain to Groot what the word had meant.

Which had taken a while; the tree being's language had no word for 'monster'. The closest translation had been 'crooked' or 'gnarled', both of which described an individual who had been unbalanced enough to harm others of their kind. There was words for 'strange' and 'not us', usually used to describe beings that weren't the same as Groot.

Language was an odd concept to Groot anyway. The language he had been grown in the First was a strange mixture of vibration (usually sound), the smell, and temperature of creatures. The reason why he could talk to Rocket like he did was Rocket, being much more sensitive than the other members of the strange grove that made up the Milano's population, could pick up the constant smells Groot gave off. Groot understood and could understand language now; but trying to actually speak the way humanoids did was a frustrating and confusing task.

_The real question is,_ Groot asked himself, _why did that memory chose to Regrow?_

He considered it was probably because of the fact that at the moment, Rocket was in obvious distress, screaming and muttering in his sleep. Groot's pot was on the side of the bunk that the raccoon, and he sent a tendril out, stroking the raccoon's fur behind the ears. Normally, Rocket wouldn't let anyone touch him, but it had been a ritual for Groot as long as he could remember, to still the dreams this way.

He had been startled when he figured out that he wasn't the only one who now shared this duty. Still, sustained slumber was important to humanoids, not the partial slumber Groot's kind engaged in, so it would be best if Rocket **didn't** wake the ship. Rocket, predictably, feeling the tendril, muttered something and went back to sleep.

There have been comments, from the other Guardians, who had rapidly become his grove after he Regrew, and from other people that he was devoted to Rocket in a way the raccoonoid had trouble acknowledging and could be down right mean about. It was simple; Rocket was the most wounded member of their Grove, the smallest, and he needed Groot.

And if Groot was completely honest, he needed him, since that prison all those years ago.

 

_It had been Rocket's first prison. He had been stealing some pretty small stuff to survive, like food, and stuff to maintain his guns. The idea of working for credits hadn't occurred to him yet. Groot, on the other hand, had been placed for charges for assault for damaging a being who had kicked an animal that closely resembled a dog. Since Groot could remember, he was instilled with the ideal of protecting creatures smaller than him, and for removing the threat of the Gnarled._

_It was a curious world that these humanoid creatures lived in that one could harm a smaller being and the one depending the smaller being would be the one who ended up in this lightless, dank place._

_He didn't know humanoid speech well yet; he knew the creaking and the wind they made was how they communicated, but besides figuring out how to say his name, Groot had no conception. Still, the “big dogs” as Rocket had called them later, of the prison, wanted an example made, and the foul mouthed little being, bereft of his weaponry, was a good target._

_Groot had come in the middle of the beating. Rocket was fast and strong; but the “big dogs” knew how to use their size to their advantage._

_Well, Groot remembered thinking, he knew how to use size to his advantage too. He loomed behind them, moving remarkably silently for being the tallest creature practically anywhere. (“How can a big dumb tree like you_ _**loom?** _ _” Rocket had snarked later, when they had understood each other to exchange notes on that day.) There was a strangled gasp as Groot seized them by the most graspable appendage he could find, tossing them aside._

_Rocket had told him later that the 'most graspable looking appendage' had been the creature's necks. That had explained the strangled, started sounds, the smell of fear, and the very slight alteration of temperature (humanoids were very warm beings, like the sun). He dangled the last one, the one most consumed with pounding on Rocket, and pulled him upside down, glaring at him._

_“I. AM. GROOT.” A liquid, smelly warm emitted from the creature's pants. Groot, supposing that he had gotten the message, flung him aside to join his compatriots across the room._

_“I didn't need your help.” came the small defensive voice in the corner. At the time, however, Groot hadn't understood the creature's speech as he scooped him up, putting him a warm tree cocoon. “Hey, hey! Let me go!” The protests were half hearted, and Rocket had hit him later (not that had damaged Groot in any way)._

_It was worth noting, however, when Rocket had escaped that very first time, Groot had come with him._

 

There was some misconception among those who observed the Rocket/Groot relationship that Rocket owned Groot, perhaps as a kind of servant. The closer, more accurate word that would explain their business relationship was 'partners'. Rocket was his Grove, along with Peter, Gamora and Drax. That was simply it. His kind didn't procreate the same way the others did. There was no 'mates', no one person that consumed your life. There was your Grove, and that was it. You spent your entire life trying to find them, and in the Guardians of the Galaxy, Groot had found his.

While he was still Regrowing, he was explaining the concept to Rocket, and indicated that this was perhaps, a conversation they should have with the rest of the team.

“I don't think that's a good idea,” came the response. “Besides, they'd be weirded out by the thought they're multiple married to a tree and a furry little monster.”

“I am Groot,” came the reply that only the two of them understood. The closest translation was 'God damn it, Rocket, you're not a monster.'

“I do not think that the remainder of the Galaxy gives a fuck what a tree beast thinks, Groot. 'Sides, 'Mora, Quill and Drax have their own damage. Don't burden them with this. Not now. Please.” From the sounds of the louder tinkering on the project that Rocket was working on, he considered the conversation ended.

Groot didn't always agree with Rocket, but he knew the raccoon well enough to respect his wishes in the matter. Still; besides dancing with Quill, giving Gamora a reassuring “I am Groot”, and playing with Drax their 'quick, make him notice me then stop moving game', he often wished he had a way to tell them what they meant to Groot.

 

_He had managed. Once. In the Dark Aster, when Rocket had rammed Ronin with the ship, saving Drax, the ship careening into their death plunge. That was when Groot knew Rocket had cared for them too. When Rocket told him he'd die, he knew that there might be a chance to live on._

_It wouldn't do to give Rocket false hope. Any of them false hope; the galaxy had shit on the other four of them, calling them ugly, taking away the things they loved._

_They were the most precious thing to him. The 'losers' as Peter had put it, the unwanted beings. They were_ _**his** _ _, and Ronan wouldn't have this victory today of knowing from whatever afterlife that gnarled murdering bastards went that he took the Guardians of the Galaxy with him._

_So, he meant it when he said, “We are Groot,” wiping Rocket's tears; and between them, there had been no ambiguity; they were his grove, the thing he had been looking for._

_It was a shame, then, that he didn't know he'd Regrow from this or not._

 

_Perhaps it was the confluence of magic and miracle that he did; he had lost more total body volume of any of his kind when the Dark Aster crashed into Xandar. Maybe it was the Infinity Stone; pulling the Guardians together as a kind of destiny (the four of the remaining guardians; their scents blurred together, their temperature all one, burning in the Infinity Stone's fire but holding it there as his consciousness, a part but watching, waiting to Regrow) as they destroyed both Ronan's ambitions and his body, the Kree dying as those words, although they were spoken with Peter's lips and in Peter's voice coming from their collective core:_

_“You said it yourself. We're the Guardians of the Galaxy,_ _**bitch** _ _.”_

_(Rocket had to explain, after some confusion on how Groot would know that, what a 'bitch' was. Groot agreed that Ronan was an utter bitch.)_

_It had been taboo the idea that one could make a Grove from humanoids on Groot's planet. That the greater mingled consciousness could not come from beings too closed off, and Groot was just a little crooked to think it could work. Those moments, those few seconds, had proven what his elders had said, the idea he was crooked, when they put him in exile, wrong._

_It was brief, and it was fleeting, and it was beautiful, and even though it lasted a second, it had marked them; even Groot, only consciousness, waiting to Regrow. They were his and he was theirs._

 

In the present, he looked over the sleeping Rocket, and smiled contentedly as the raccoon snored. He then considered he would never have to tell the remaining Guardians his secret, and he didn't care that he, and them were considered freaks. He was home anyway.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd apologize for this chapter being so short, but no. Groot is the Guardian with the least damage, and so, less torture as far as questioning who/what he is. I don't do this hardly at all, but this Chapter is dedicated to my Grove. You know who you are.


End file.
